


fade into ash and snow

by darthpumpkinspice



Series: fighting towards a blood-stained peace [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, POV Multiple, Uneasy Allies, cantinas galore!, little bit of smut included, saxon is still kinda a jerk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice
Summary: Gar Saxon and Fenn Rau are sent by their Mand'alor to Krownest, answering Ursa Wren's call for aid. But trust is in short supply, and there are a myriad of hidden enemies concealed in the shadows...
Relationships: Fenn Rau/Gar Saxon, Gar Saxon & Ursa Wren, Ursa Wren & Fenn Rau
Series: fighting towards a blood-stained peace [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838950
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okayyy so i thought of releasing this in a giant, single chapter... but decided against that! it was becoming way too unwieldly. I'm estimating I'll need 3 chapters for this one, but that's liable to change if necessary. anyhow, here we go! this takes place a few months after the Rook&Maul story, and is as promised much more grounded than that one! i really hope ya'll enjoy, because i had a great time writing this!! let me know your thoughts :D
> 
> And btw if anyone is coming here w/o reading the first work in this series, here’s a quick tl;dr for that one! Basically Satine was never rescued, joined up with Maul & his Mando’s, helped him keep Mandalore, he eventually abdicated leadership to Rook. End result is Mandalore is a more independent entity in the galaxy & lately Saxon’s been chilling on Concord Dawn with Fenn.

Fenn Rau is finally, belatedly, registering how deeply out of his element he is.

The cantina is dark and hazy with spice-infused vapors that tickle his throat unpleasantly with every breath, and even as he fights back the urge to cough, a patron a table away blows out an obscenely large series of smoke rings that waft towards Fenn’s general direction, bringing with them the odor of burnt tobacco and Kessel spice. His eyes prickle and start to water, and he blinks rapidly, wishing he could don his helmet – as much to utilize its oxygen filters as to disguise the look of conspicuous disgust surely etched onto his face. But while Krownest is ostensibly a Mandalorian world, the trading port they’re currently visiting is populated almost exclusively with off-world merchants, Imperial fugitives, and vagrants. The sight of a Mandalorian in full armor, waltzing into a hookah bar, would draw too many eyes. He tugs unhappily at the unfamiliar sleeve of his leather jacket, shifting into a seated position in his alcove, as he silently resents his existence.

He wasn’t here of his own free will, not by a longshot. His Mand’alor had _volunteered_ him on this assignment, which he likely would’ve minded a whole lot _less_ if she’d bothered to actually give him any relevant details about the mission.

_“There’s a contact on Krownest I want you to connect with,” Rook had told him. “I’ll send you the coordinates and meeting time. Be there.”_

_“Uh, well,” Fenn had remembered saying, as he frantically tried to decide on the most tactful way to tell his Mand’alor (and also, perhaps more intimidatingly, Saxon’s closest friend), that her briefing needed some work. “Can you give me any more information?” he’d eventually asked._

_At this, Rook rolled her eyes. “You’ll figure it out. Look, I have a Security Council meeting in five, can’t talk long. Just… give them whatever assistance you can. I’ve promised them additional aid.” Here, her mouth had twisted with distaste. “You ever been to Krownest, Rau?”_

_“No,” he had admitted._

_She huffed out a quick laugh. “You aren’t missing much. Frigid little backwater.” She paused, considering. “I’d recommend bringing Saxon along. And… don’t go as a Mandalorian.” And with that, she’d terminated the broadcast._

There’s a hand on his shoulder suddenly, and as it squeezes he’s snapped from his reverie. He looks up as Saxon withdraws his hand, looming over him and appearing, irritatingly, perfectly in _his_ element. He looks downright comfortable wearing the same sort of civilian clothes that feel so out of place on Fenn, although coupled with Saxon’s physique, they make him resemble a hired thug much more than the Correllian starship merchants they’re supposedly posing as. 

“You look unhappy,” Saxon notes, peering down at him before lowering himself to sit beside Fenn on the mound of pillows layered over the floor of the alcove. He picks up one that appears to be slightly charred, turning it over in his hands and smirking. “Blaster bolt,” he says, shoving it over for Fenn’s inspection. “That’s hilarious. Either someone was a terrible shot, or they get into _intense_ pillow fights on this planet.”

Fenn gazes down at the pillow, his finger tracing automatically over the scoured fabric where the silk had burned. “Look like,” he says grumbles.

If Saxon is disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm, he hides it well. His eyes drift across the cantina, and he smiles. “I like this place.”

Fenn grunts something noncommittal, and in response Saxon pulls closer and flings an arm over his shoulder. “Enjoy yourself while we wait,” he purrs. The smile that plays over his scarred lips has taken on a roguish quality that only serves to set Fenn further on edge. Warily, Fenn watches as Saxon fishes around in his pockets, pulling out two cigarras. They’ve both been sloppily hand-rolled, and they give off the sickly sweet odor of spice mixed with tobacco.

“Bought these off the smuggler by the bar, the one with the fucked-up face,” Saxon says, answering Fenn’s question before he can think to ask it. Fenn glances towards the bar, getting a glimpse of a heavily scarred Togruta woman wearing a faded greatcoat weighed down with heavily stuffed pockets. She shifts on the balls of her feet, and Fenn doesn’t think she could look more suspicious if she tried. He looks down at the cigarras apprehensively.

“Come on,” Saxon coaxes – or at least, attempts to. He’s never been terribly good at disguising his impatience, although Fenn does appreciate the modicum of effort he put in on the attempt.

With a long sigh, Fenn finally capitulates. Grudgingly, he accepts one of the offered cigarras, and holds it up for a light. “This is peer pressure,” he says flatly, although he can’t resist a small smile as Saxon sparks up the lighter.

“You were the one who wanted to get here early to ‘scout the place’,” Saxon reminds him. Amusement flickers through his eyes. “Still satisfied with your decision?”

Fenn feels his cheeks heat, and he decides to pointedly ignore him. He holds his cigarra to the flame until the tip begins to smolder, then takes a long drag from it. His throat burns almost immediately, and he finds himself reduced to a small coughing fit. Saxon chuckles, sucking in on his own cigarra and blowing out a thick cloud of violet smoke. Fenn takes in another pull, slower this time, and leans back against the wall as humans and aliens mill about around the cantina. Two Mirialan merchants, one green-skinned and the other gold-skinned, have begun to argue with the bartender, and off to the side a scantily clad Rattataki – a prostitute, he guesses – of indiscernible sex, sidles over to the Togruta’s side. It’s the sort of place you could find near-identical versions of on hundreds of worlds scattered across the galaxy: grimy, poorly-lit, and disconcertingly humid. Fenn’s never developed much of a taste for ground missions. He’s a pilot all the way through, and he feels the most at home amidst the openness of the void. He tries to distract himself from the rankling of claustrophobia by taking another drag from the cigarra.

He blows out, his eyes tracking over the patrons and finally settling on a sabacc table pushed into one of the alcoves in the far corner. It’s probably the nicest object in the place, and frankly, he’s not sure how he didn’t spot it before. Not only is it emanating a neon glow, but it also looks like it’s been freshly _polished_. There are only two players remaining: a muscular Zabrak woman whose sabacc face appears to just be a perpetual scowl, and an alien he can’t identify with massive, insectoid eyes and a small face partially obscured by the breathing apparatus secured to its mouth.

Saxon, who has somehow almost finished his cigarra, follows his gaze and whistles. “I’ve been watching that Gand for a bit. Nobody’s beaten him yet.” There is an icy gleam in his eyes, and he smirks. “One guy looked on the verge of tears when he was through. Wonder what he gambled away… his ship maybe? His husband or wife?” 

Fenn shrugs. “Hopefully nothing so dire. Could be he’s just a sore loser.”

Saxon stubs out his cigarra on the burned pillow, flicking the butt onto the floor, and then stands, leaning against the wall to get a better view of the game. “You know,” he says, in a tone of voice that is slow and dangerously thoughtful, “what makes Gand such adept sabacc players… aside from being slightly telepathic… is that most humanoid species tend to look for their opponents tells in the face, or the posture. Gand don’t communicate emotions like that. It’s all kind of… ticks along their fingers and neck.”

It’s an impressively detailed selection of knowledge about a species Fenn can’t recall ever seeing before. “How did you find all that out?”

Saxon’s expression darkens. “Lost more credits than I’d like to remember to a Gand once. He was a real asshole too. Acted so _humble_ the entire time, even as he was sweeping my all credits into his pockets. Fucker.” As if on cue, the Zabrak bursts up from her seat, her scowl deepening as she angrily slaps down her credits in front of the Gand. He inclines his head in her direction as she stalks off, pocketing his winnings and reclining back in his chair.

Fenn senses Saxon shift beside him, and he looks up, dismayed to notice that the pissed off expression on his face has evaporated, giving way to a look of devilish calculation as he spots an opportunity. He straightens from his lazy slouch against the wall, and begins to advance forward with a look of almost predatory intent glittering in his pale eyes.

“Wait,” Fenn hisses. “Didn’t you say they were telepathic too?”

“Only mildly,” Saxon calls back over his shoulder. “And spice tends to screw with it.” He flashes a grin, and Fenn swallows down his protests, half-heartedly taking another pull of the cigarra.

Fenn decides against watching the sabacc proceedings, and instead returns his attention to the Togruta. The Rattataki’s proposition was evidently a success – the two of them are now entwined in a passionate embrace, and Fenn averts his gaze, feeling as if he’s somehow intruding on a private moment. The Mirialans, at least, seem to have settled their dispute with the bartender – all three are now laughing together at some joke that was apparently wildly hilarious. Fenn watches them for as long as he can get away with without appearing creepy, which, as it turns out, is not very long. The golden Mirialan catches his gaze and glares at him, and he quickly looks away, staring awkwardly at the heap of pillows surrounding him instead.

Fortunately, it’s not too long before Saxon returns, looking even more self-satisfied than usual. Fenn stands to greet him, risking a quick glance towards the sabacc table. The Gand is still there, although their fingers twitch over the table in a display of some emotion that might be anger, or disappointment, or anything in between. Fenn turns back to Saxon, and can’t quite resist a smile at the sight of him – despite his better instincts he finds he’s slightly proud of Saxon’s success. A contest won by guile alone may not be the most honorable victory, perhaps, but he can’t exactly bring himself to mind. 

“Gand are morons,” Saxon gloats. “Most species don’t know the first thing about their tells, so they rarely try to hide them. As easy as robbing an infant.”

“Robbed many infants, have you?” Fenn asks wryly, torn between amusement and annoyance. It’s growing later than he’d like, and their contact should’ve been here by now – and Saxon’s inability to sit still is doing nothing to put him at ease.

“Of course not,” Saxon says, his voice dripping with faux-sincerity. “Most infants don’t carry credits with them. Although… are you trying to tell me it’s just an untapped market…?!” He winks, and Fenn again feels that curious blend of fondness intermingling with irritation.

“I envy people who haven’t met you,” Fenn grumbles, and is dismayed to see that Saxon’s only response is a smug smile.

“You’re being cruel,” Saxon murmurs, stepping forward and crowding him back until Fenn is pressed firmly against the wall. Saxon’s hands grip his shoulders, keeping him steady as he dips his head to kiss Fenn. The kiss is hardly gentle – perhaps in an attempt at petty revenge concocted by Saxon – and when he pulls away Fenn is left gasping and unfairly disheveled.

It takes his brain a second to recalibrate, and in the meanwhile Saxon looks thoroughly pleased with himself as Fenn struggles to find his words. He eventually manages, “I thought you like it when I was cruel.”

Saxon laughs. “To other people! But not to me….” He leans forward, his mouth against Fenn’s again as his hands start to roam further than they probably should, given their not-so-secluded spot. It takes every ounce of rapidly dwindling willpower left in his body, but with a groan Fenn pushes Saxon off of him.

“Don’t we have a contact to meet?” he asks.

“They’ll find us,” Saxon purrs, pressing forward again to kiss up the arched line of Fenn’s throat. His lips graze Fenn’s ear, and he murmurs, “They want our help, they should do the work. Only fair, don’t you think?”

Despite the haze of spice-enhanced pleasure, something about that statement is dimly flagged by the Bad Ideas section of his brain – although perhaps just because it’s _Saxon_ feeding him the idea. Fenn is - _definitely, for sure this time_ – about to pull away, when he hears the distinctive sound of someone clearing their throat, way too close for comfort. He draws away from Saxon, his hand instinctively going to his hip to rest on the grip of his blaster.

The woman standing before them crosses her arms over her chest. She’s covered in thick, snow-dusted furs, and from what little Fenn can see of her expression under her facial wraps, she’s evidently unamused.

“Fenn Rau, I presume?” she asks stiffly. Her eyes flicker to Saxon and then narrow. “I’ve already been acquainted with this one.”

“You found familiar,” Saxon says, his voicing hardening with distrust. He glares at her. “I know you. Who are you?”

“Glad to see all the spice hasn’t completely turned your memory to slush,” she says, and takes a half-step back as she peels away the wrappings around her face and neck.

Fenn doesn’t recognize the woman, but Saxon freezes, his lips drawing back into a snarl. “Ursa Wren, you piece of shit,” he sneers. “I’d forgotten this ice-cube of a world is where your pathetic little clan has their stronghold.” He turns to Fenn, gesturing dismissively in Ursa’s direction. “I told you about her before. One of Bo-Katan’s top women. Fuck whatever Rook said; I have no interest in wasting my time helping this traitorous bitch.” 

Ursa stares at him with an expression of pure, deep disgust. “You go ahead and tell your Mand’alor that, then.” At this, Saxon grinds his teeth, but says nothing. “I don’t particularly want to work with you either. But it appears Rook still carries a grudge too, otherwise she wouldn’t have sent _you_ specifically - so I doubt you’ll be able to pass this mission off onto anyone else.”

At this, Fenn decides its past time he interject. Whatever Saxon’s issues with the woman – legitimate or not – Fenn’s only concern is getting through this entire assignment as smoothly as possible. “Of course we’ll help you,” he says. Saxon’s scowl deepens at this, and with a quick warning glare, Fenn adds, “that’s not in doubt.”

Ursa appears slightly mollified. “I’m relieved to see the Protectors still have their honor intact,” she says. “Thank you. Believe me, if we had any other recourse, we wouldn’t be requesting aid from Sundari.” Her lips twist. “Still a little too much bad blood.”

Fenn licks his lips, suddenly aware that they’re still in a cantina populated by dozens of strangers. “I’m sure there’s a more private location we can continue this conversation.” he says.

Ursa seems to relax marginally. “Certainly. My ship is docked nearby. Although… I had a stowaway.”

“A stowaway?” Fenn echoes, his brow furrowing.

Ursa lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I just wanted to give a heads-up. It’s really nothing to concern yourself with. My husband is coming to take care of it.” She begins to reapply the wrappings around her face, until only her eyes are visible. “Shall we?”

* * *

In a feat that can only be attributed to divine intervention, they arrive at Ursa’s ship without incident. The docking ramp extends out, and Fenn has to control the urge to sprint into the warm belly of the ship as fast as humanely possible. There had been some small flurries of snow when he and Saxon had touched down a few hours earlier, but sometime between then and when they had left the cantina, those unassuming flurries had transformed into a full-fledged blizzard. Both he and Saxon had begun to shiver uncontrollably after about a minute, and Ursa Wren, in her sensible assortment of layered furs, had seemed to take an undue pleasure in leading them at what could _generously_ be described as a leisurely pace. Perhaps that had been the trick, Fenn thinks, as the ramp pulls back behind them and they begin to defrost – Saxon was simply too cold to do anything rash.

His hands feel frozen solid, and he shoves them under his armpits, bitterly reminiscing about their time on Rishi – _that_ had been a planet with a hospitable climate. He shakes half-melted snow out of his hair, and pretends he’s sitting on a beach. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t help him warm up any faster, and Ursa gives him a look of faint sympathy.

“You’re a fighter pilot, aren’t you?” she asks.

“First and foremost,” he tries to say, in between the chattering of his teeth.

His words come out mostly as gibberish, but Ursa seems to understand his meaning. She nods, as if he’s just confirmed a theory of hers. “It’s a different battlefield, out there between the stars,” she says simply.

Fenn doesn’t quite trust his tongue yet, and his face is still slightly numb, so he merely nods. He looks around for Saxon, and ends up finding the stowaway Ursa had mentioned. It’s a child, one that resembles Ursa strongly enough for him to make the connection that she is, in all likelihood, the mother.

“Hello!” the child chirps, with the bold self-assurance children are infamous for. 

Ursa makes a valiant attempt to shoo her away. “Sabine – wait in the cockpit until your father arrives. We will discuss this… incident… later.” She glances back. “I do apologize for my daughter.”

“It’s no trouble,” Saxon says, waving down at the girl. She smiles up at him, pointing to the weapon strapped to his belt and holding out her hand imploringly.

With a glare, Ursa leans over to slap away the blaster Saxon attempts to offer to her daughter.

“Enough,” she says sharply. Her nostrils flare as she draws in a deep, steadying breath. “You are every bit as dense as I remember, Saxon. It is a horrible marvel that the universe has conspired once more to have our clans join together as allies.”

Saxon, now kneeling besides Sabine, slowly rises up to his full height, looming over Ursa. He pauses before responding, perhaps curious to see if she’ll flinch away. Fenn is unsurprised when Ursa simply tenses her shoulders and sneers. Saxon’s gray eyes shine coldly in response, and he gives her a lazy once-over before smiling indulgently. “Is that really the tone you want to take?” he asks, his voice dropping into a low, mocking purr. “After all, you’re here to beg for our help.” His eyes have become as hard as slate. “I think I’d rather see you _grovel_ than insult me.”

A muscle works in Ursa’s jaw, indicating rather clearly that she has zero intentions of doing anything _close_ to that. But Fenn is familiar with the history of her and her clan, and he knows that her pride – while considerable – is not unrelenting. She was a member of Bo-Katan’s Nite Owl elites, after all, and one who chose to bow in defeat and save her clan rather than fight to the bitter end as so many of them had. Saxon has begun to eye her in the predatory, hungry way he always does when he senses a challenge – doubtless he too suspects that Ursa will once again bend rather than break if pushed to that point. And Fenn knows his partner well – there is little Saxon enjoys more than pushing someone to that threshold. But his patience with Saxon’s sadistic need for control is limited even under the best circumstances, and today certainly does not constitute the _best circumstances._

He has few enough excuses to flex his authority as Chief Protector, he decides. Time to use his position to its advantage. “Wren, Saxon,” he snaps. “Play nice. This is business from Mandalore.”

Saxon scowls at him. Fenn is acutely aware that although Saxon is nominally his subordinate, the man has his own private ideas about where he fits into the Protector command structure. He’s certain Saxon is going to try and reassert his wounded dominance at some later point. If they’re lucky, it’ll be in some appealingly carnal fashion, likely involving Fenn on his knees in one capacity or another. If they’re unlucky… well, he hopes Ursa Wren has invested in some quality beskar.

Ursa’s lips twist into an ugly smile. “Still getting used to calling the shots, Rau?”

Saxon bristles on Fenn’s behalf, but Fenn merely stares at Ursa until she sighs, her expression deflating somewhat. “It’s true, I did come for your assistance,” she acknowledges. “As I told Rook, we have a mutual enemy. Like it or not, Krownest is Mandalorian territory, and what threatens us, threatens the rest of the sector.” Here, she turns back to Saxon, and her features ripple with a mix of bitterness and something that almost resembles old fondness. They were friends once, Fenn recalls. Both of them members of cousin clans in service to House Vizsla. He wonders how many battles they fought in side-by-side, how many bottles they split around bonfires as they shared war stories and bragged of conquest. They had history together, before the rift caused in the wake of Vizsla’s death, and perhaps it is some warped echo of that old camaraderie that fuels their current rivalry.

“As dense as always,” Ursa says again, but in a marginally lighter tone. “I trust you are as brutish as you once were too?”

Saxon raises an eyebrow, and flashes an insolent smile. “Whatever would give you that impression?”

Ursa barks out a quick laugh. “I certainly hope you still are. I do not want this situation to be handled with _subtlety._ ”

It feels strangely wrong to interrupt whatever is going on between the two of them, but Fenn is growing impatient. “Tell us, Ursa, what _is_ the situation?”

She frowns. “Rook didn’t brief you?” At the shake of his head, she grimaces. “It’s… complex. The sum of it: we’ve had a surge in missing persons.”

“This is a conquest world,” Saxon interjects. “Your population is heavily bolstered by off-world residents, most of them temporary. It’s probably just the natural ebb and flow of migration.”

“Thank you, Saxon, for that tidbit of wisdom, which was previously unknown to me,” she retorts, her words dripping with sarcasm. She turns back to Fenn, and gives him a beseeching look. “It’s permanent residents that have been taken. Even a few from Mandalorian clans – a much smaller percentage, but one that is slowly growing. All young adults, all physically healthy. No ransom is ever given, no bodies found. Our working theory is that they are being sold into slavery.” Her jaw clenches. “Rook is of the opinion, as am I, that Mandalore cannot abide this. If our people cannot count on us to deliver some measure of security, we have failed them.”

An awkward pause settles between them, before there is a merciful interruption in the form of a child’s whine. Fenn had just about forgotten Sabine’s presence – to her credit, she was remarkably quiet during the duration of their conversation. “Mom!” she says again, more demandingly. Fenn looks down as Sabine reaches up to tug on her mother’s sleeve. “I want to fire the blaster. You keep promising to teach me.”

“She’s precious,” Saxon coos. He smiles down at Sabine, and looks for a moment genuinely paternal – enough to make Fenn feel strangely soft on the inside. Then he looks back to Ursa and his expression shifts into cruel amusement. “Your offspring is delightful! It’s miraculous the Wren clan finally produced someone with a warrior’s spirit. Does that trait skip a generation or something?”

Ursa only rolls her eyes, and strokes Sabine’s hair with a weary patience. “You think kids are precious until you actually try your hand at raising them,” she cautions. Her lip twists in dissatisfaction. “Lately, she’s been painting all over our walls.”

Saxon shrugs. “My sister was the same way as a kid. My advice? Invest in some rubbing alcohol and a cast-plast scraper.”

Ursa scoffs at this. “You’re welcome to babysit some time, if you want a trial run of what’s in store. My husband and I could use a night off. Speaking of, he should be here by now….”

Saxon looks contemplative, and grins at Fenn as if already mentally preparing a strategy to wheedle him into participating.

There is the faint buzz of a communicator, and Ursa almost sags with relief. “Finally!” she exclaims. “By the gods.” The docking ramp opens again, and she ushers Sabine out, into the waiting arms of a man Fenn takes to be her husband. He gives her a brief wave, and then takes Sabine’s hand, pulling her in the direction of a small transport.

Ursa looks at both of them. “Well,” she says. “Rau, I assume you want to head back to your ship? If you leave now, you’ll be able to brief your Protectors on the situation while Saxon and I scout out some promising locations in the area. It’ll be good to have you bring in the cavalry, once we’re pinpointed the source of the abductions.” Saxon nods in agreement, and both of them turn towards him, waiting. It’s positively surreal, seeing them so aligned for the first time.

“I’m staying here,” Fenn states, as authoritatively as he can. “I don’t need to be on Concord Dawn to notify them of the situation. There’s this invention called a holo-projector, believe it or not.”

Saxon makes a face, unsubtle in his displeasure. “You’re Chief Protector,” he says. “You shouldn’t put yourself in the fray for something as trivial as this. That’s _my_ job.”

Ursa looks dubious. “You take orders now, Saxon?”

Fenn meets her gaze and offers an apologetic shrug. “Not very well.”

“Fuck you,” Saxon snarls, and Fenn isn’t sure who the remark is meant to be directed to.

“Rau,” Ursa starts. “There is a very serious possibility we will require the backing of the Protectors, if it comes to it. You’re our best link to them, obviously. And beyond that, it’ll be important to have someone monitoring the situation, away from the thick of it.”

“Look, I see where you’re both coming from,” he starts, modulating his voice to make it sound somewhat conciliatory, without coming across as guilty. He’s not… completely successful, judging by Saxon and Ursa’s raised eyebrows. He clears his throat and tries again. “I know there are risks. But this is reconnaissance, not a war-zone. And with that in mind, I’ve made up my mind to accompany you both.”

“Are you sure this isn’t just an attempt to supervise us?” Ursa asks, raising an eyebrow.

He wouldn’t dream of admitting it to either of them, but Ursa has, accidentally or otherwise, discovered a large part of why Fenn is so eager to join them. He has no illusions that Saxon wouldn’t happily chuck Ursa Wren directly into enemy hands without a second thought, and for that matter, he can also easily picture Ursa leaving Saxon behind in an ambush out of sheer spite. “No,” he lies – poorly. “Of course not. Let’s not jump to any absurd conclusions here.” 

Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “Hm.” She makes brief eye contact with Saxon, who simply shrugs. “Alright,” she relents. “I’ll see you both tomorrow to figure out our next steps.” She smiles unpleasantly. “ _Best_ of luck getting back to your ship… hopefully you didn’t dock too far away.”

* * *

As he had predicted, Fenn does indeed find himself on his knees later, with his face pushed against their ship’s thin mattress as Saxon fucks into him at a pace distinctly more vicious than usual. Its unsurprising, really, Fenn manages to think - even as he begins to more urgently stroke his own cock - Saxon is still angry, and aggression is the language he’s most fluent in for expressing those feelings. The hands against his hips tighten, and Fenn feels his balls grow tight, his body hovering on the precipice of release. He’s lucky, he supposes, that Saxon gets too lost in sex to be remotely calculating in his cruelty in these moments. Once he’s buried inside of Fenn, there’s little he won’t do to chase his own release – which is a mercy… for if Saxon wanted to be _especially_ petty, he’d pull out altogether, right before Fenn has had a chance to cum, reducing him to a begging, needing mess. The thought of _that_ is oddly arousing in a way Fenn hasn’t considered before, and he finds himself fixating on it as Saxon’s pace, impossibly, grows even more forceful. His world seems to white out for a second, and he shudders, spilling into his hand as Saxon, snarling something he can’t make out, follows suit moments after.

Saxon rolls over onto him after, languid and content, any lingering resentments bled out of him. Fenn’s stress, unfortunately, is still quite present, but he lets himself relax in the heat of Saxon’s arms. And for a moment, he feels his anxiety drain away. The moment does not last long. He feels Saxon tense around him, and then asks, suddenly, “Do you want kids?”

They’ve danced around this conversation before, and Fenn twists in Saxon’s arms so that he can face him. “I think so,” he says. “Although we both know I’m not exactly great with them.” He frowns. “But Saxon… the Protectors don’t exactly make a habit of adopting, like other clans. We recruit older.”

“Screw them,” Saxon says easily. “You’re their _king_ , you can do what you want.” It’s an antiquated word, and one not entirely applicable to Fenn’s situation, but it sounds appealing coming from Saxon, and gripped by impulse, Fenn kisses him. It’s a soft kiss, but not very long, and when their lips part Saxon runs his fingers through Fenn’s hair, his expression as open and soft as it can get.

“Okay,” Fenn says, “but logistically, where would you find one? Concord Dawn isn’t touched by Imperial brutality – there aren’t many war orphans lying about.”

“No,” Saxon agrees. “But you and I aren’t strangers to battle. Maybe we should do our due diligence after – depending on the location, many combatants do leave behind families.” He frowns at Fenn’s appalled expression. “It’s our people’s way.”

“Maybe for Death Watch,” Fenn says shortly. “But I don’t want to do that – taking the child of an enemy we’ve slaughtered.”

Something shrewd glitters in the gray depths of Saxon’s eyes, and he gives Fenn a careful look. It’s moments like these – when Fenn can spy that cold, cruel intelligence lurking underneath Saxon’s usual blend of temperamental charm and affability – that he’s reminded that despite Saxon’s projected façade of being a brutish grunt, he was Maul’s top commander – prized for his cunning as much as his martial prowess. Saxon, perhaps aware he’s being studied, flashes a disarming smile that doesn’t offset the chill in his eyes one iota. “You were a war orphan,” he starts, slow and deliberate. “You ever wonder how you got to be that way? If it was your old man who pulled the trigger on your birth parents? He wasn’t ever a Protector. He doesn’t share those _noble_ virtues.”

“I don’t think about that,” Fenn says sharply. He sighs, and tries to soften his tone. “We’ll figure this out later,” he says. “Right now I’m mostly fixated on Ursa’s issue.”

Saxon is still looking at him with an almost clinical curiosity, but he gives a hum of agreement. “It’s unfortunate. And if Ursa Wren is incapable of controlling her world, she shouldn’t have it. If it wasn’t such a miserable snowball of a planet, I’d suggest it as a new seat of power for the Protectors.”

Fenn laughs. “I hope you’re joking.”

“Only partially,” Saxon replies. “Maybe it could go to my clan, instead. My mothers are looking for a retirement spot." He sits up and stretches. “Either way, Fenn, this is Ursa’s failing. Rook is playing politics by sending us, trying to appease the clans and make us look more unified. We shouldn’t be here.”

Fenn props himself up on his elbows, staring at Saxon. “Ursa wants to protect her people,” he says. “She’s a proud woman – I’m sure it wasn’t easy for her to ask for outside help.”

“She should be able to protect her people herself,” Saxon grunts. “Her weakness is not our problem. And it’s possible she merely requested aid as a way to keep her own clan safely sheltered from harm.”

“You know her better than I do,” Fenn says at last. “Do you really think that’s a possibility?”

Saxon scowls. “Possibility? Sure. How likely, I can’t say. Either way, don’t let your guard down around her. Although she likes to act it, she’s not always a straightforward woman. And she’s proved herself comfortable with treachery.”

“Sounds like she might say the same about you.”

Saxon scowls and closes his eyes, rolling over to his side and pulling a blanket around him, one that had been unceremoniously shoved to the floor not long earlier. “I’m just warning you. Don’t let your compassion get in the way of our _actual_ mission.”

“Actual mission?” Fenn asks quizzically. “Maybe I missed something in my nonexistent briefing, but this seems very cut and dry.”

“The _mission_ ,” Saxon says, his voice already growing thick with sleep, “is to help Mandalore. _Not_ Ursa Wren.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ookay so in the process of writing this i realized i had to add another chapter to the length. the original size of this was getting really unwieldly, so I'm splitting it in two and I plan to finish writing/polishing the second half later. this chapter is not very action-heavy, and i apologize for that! but the next one should make up for it! 
> 
> i had a lot of fun writing this, and i really hope ya'll enjoy! lemme know your thoughtsss <3

Saxon’s woken up by the infernally cheerful chirping of the alarm he only half-remembers setting for himself the night before. “Fuck me,” he slurs, rolling over in the doomed hope that if he ignores the alarm, it’ll somehow eventually turn itself off. It never has before, and it doesn’t make an exception this time. Instead, the sound only grows more insistent, until he grudgingly pushes his sheet to the side and sits up enough to slap the thing off. He kneads sleep from his eyes, feeling a surge of resentment for past-Saxon’s decision-making. He’s not feeling the most well-rested either. His sleep had been disturbed by bizarre nightmares – scattered fragments of past memories, as well as one surreal dream featuring a Hutt chasing after him on a repulsor-ski, its stubby arms clutching a massive bazooka. Thankfully, _that_ one has already started to dissolve, but the echo of the slug’s chortling still rings dimly in his ears.

His surroundings start to coalesce into a clearer picture: scattered clothes on the ground around the bed, the hatch to their quarters opened to the corridor outside, and from beyond - the sound of tuneless humming intermingled with soft footsteps and the faint whirr of a caf-machine. He lets himself flop back onto the bed with a grunt, waiting for Fenn to inevitably return.

It takes a few minutes, but he does, sipping on a cup of still-steaming caf and looking, irritatingly, wide-awake and positively _lively_. And he’s wearing – Saxon squints. “You stole my boxers,” he accuses.

Fenn glowers at him. “I see you’re up. For the record, _you_ stole mine _first._ I was down a pair. What did you expect?” He takes a long slurp of his caf, maintaining eye contact as he does as if daring Saxon to challenge him.

“Fine, you win,” Saxon relents with a grumble. “But come back to bed. It’s cold as shit.”

“Only because you always conveniently forget about the existence of blankets,” Fenn says, approaching the bed and pointedly nudging the recently discarded sheet. But with a roll of his eyes and another quick gulp of caf, he sets the mug on the floor and climbs on top of the mattress to join Saxon.

Saxon pulls him into his arms, lazily nuzzling against his neck. Warmth radiates from Fenn, and Saxon struggles against the temptation to close his eyes and sink back into sleep. “I wish we didn’t have to leave this ship,” he complains tiredly. “Fuck Ursa and her stupid drama.”

“Ursa Wren and her _stupid drama_ are the reason we’re here,” Fenn reminds him. He shakes Saxon’s arms off him, and twists around to face him. “And we’re supposed to meet her soon, so you’re starting to run out of time to get ready.”

Personally, Saxon’s in absolutely zero rush. If anything, the thought of making Ursa wait around for them seems like fair compensation for how she’d kept _them_ waiting at the cantina the day before. He doesn’t bother sharing this with Fenn; he suspects the other man already knows his thoughts on the matter, and if he doesn’t, he’ll figure them out soon. Instead, he stares into Fenn’s eyes - almost impossibly blue under the harsh light of the overhead fluorescents- as unpleasant thoughts start to churn. The reason for it eludes him, but whatever the cause, being here on this cold little planet has begun to stir up memories he’s been successful at suppressing for years. The vision from the cave has begun to intrude on his dreams again, and though many details are faded and lost, the sting of _defeat_ is still knife-sharp in his mind. And even more insultingly, the resurfacing memory is forcing him to engage in one of his least favorite activities: _contemplation._ He’s not the sort of man built for ponderous philosophical quandaries and dilemmas – nature and nurture had both seemingly wanted nothing more for him than to be a fighter… a destiny he’s always embraced with open arms. But now, frustratingly, he’s begun to _wonder_ about things, things he hasn’t ever bothered to reflect on before. Soft, stupid things, like his place in the universe, and the particular set of circumstances that led him _here_ , to this version of reality, instead of the one where he was fated to die on his knees: a bolt of plasma to the back and half his fingers chopped off.

These thoughts crawl like parasites through his brain, and he starts, “You ever wonder-” He bites it off mid-sentence, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. But Fenn is gazing at him with a look of earnest, almost innocent curiosity, and so he tenses his jaw and continues. “You ever wonder if we would’ve been enemies, in another life?”

Fenn’s expression softens. “Of course not,” he says gently. Then, perhaps remembering that Saxon can’t abide pity for long, he offers a roguish grin. “You’re too irresistible.”

He’s lying through his teeth, that much is clear as kyber. Fenn’s never picked up any sort of talent for deception, despite Saxon’s best attempts to teach him. Still. He accepts the comfort Fenn attempts to offer him, and pushes the nagging, intrusive thoughts back into the dark corner of his mind where they belong. He reminds himself that _the nature of reality_ is just some bullshit concept invented by academics with too much time on their hands, anyway. The only thing that matters is what _is_. The present is all that exists. 

* * *

Too soon, they leave their ship to travel to Ursa’s. Outside it is even more frigid than yesterday, with a temperature even a tauntaun would struggle to survive in. With Krownest’s perpetual winter, he’d expected it to be cold, but this is an entirely new level. He shivers as a gust of bitter wind smacks him right in the face, his eyes starting to water. He misses the comforts of an insulated bodysuit and climate-controlled armor; the synthetic fabrics of his shirt and pants, and the thin, barely-protective layer of his leather jacket don’t keep the cold away as much as slow down its progession… barely. He smooths back his hair with fingers that are already starting to go numb, and he exhales vapor into the air like smoke. Any lingering heat from Fenn’s company has already been leeched away. eHe He shoves his hands back into his pockets, clenching and unclenching them to keep the blood circulating.

At his shoulder, Fenn’s eyes are fixed on the port city sprawled out before them. To Saxon’s faint alarm, an emotion that looks distressingly close to _awe_ plays over his expression. “Admit it,” Fenn murmurs. “ _That_ at least is beautiful.”

Saxon squints at the horizon and makes a half-hearted attempt to see Krownest through Fenn’s eyes. He fails. The port might as well be a monument to ugliness – all he manages to behold is a cold, wet landscape that’s been drained of color. Above, clouds the color of ash choke the sky, and underfoot the snow has turned brown from pedestrian foot traffic and groundcar run-off. In his opinion, the world is a malformed block of discolored ice that never should’ve been added to Mandalore’s collection.

He debates lying to Fenn, decides against it. Instead, he offers a shrug and licks absently at his chapped lips. There’s a puff of hot breath against his cheek as Fenn leans closer. His lips graze Saxon’s stubble in an almost-kiss as he says, “I’d missed this, really. It’s been too long since it’s been just the two of us on a mission together.”

“Too bad it’s not _just_ the two of us,” Saxon mutters.

Fenn pulls away with a wry look. “You’re ruining the moment,” he chides mildly. 

Saxon’s started to shiver in earnest, and snow has begun to accumulate in his hair. “I’ll make it up to you later.” He nods in the direction of the road. “Let’s move. My balls are about to freeze off.” 

* * *

Ursa greets them unexpectedly quickly where her ship is docked, ushering them inside. She’s not wearing the fur-lined wraps from before, he notes suspiciously, but instead a simple bodysuit. Once the docking ramp has fully withdrawn behind them, she opens a painted ivory chest, revealing a set of carefully stacked armor. Without a word, she begins to pull it on, one piece at a time, with a silent precision.

At this point, his suspicion has grown to the point where it’s virtually metastasized, and he casts his gaze around the ship, checking the shadowed corners for hidden assailants.

“What are you doing?” Fenn asks warily. “We were told, specifically, not to draw attention to ourselves as Mandalorians.”

Ursa doesn’t so much as spare a glance in his direction. She’s almost finished with the armor – her chest piece is secured, but the last piece to complete it – her blaster - is still in the trunk. She reaches down, and Saxon grabs her wrist before she can pull it out. He slips a thumb underneath the raised ridge between her gauntlet and bodysuit, and squeezes against bone. He’s gratified to see a frission of pain distort her features, but her eyes are cold and she doesn’t make an attempt to squirm out of his grip. “Answer him. What’s going on?” 

He presses down harder, and she winces. “Release me. _Then_ I’ll tell you.”

He has no intention of doing anything of the sort, and at this point, he doesn’t think Fenn would care to stop him either. Fenn might generally abhor needless violence, but his moral code has always been flexible enough to accommodate _pragmatic_ exceptions. Ursa seems to sense this, and she grimaces. “Fine,” she relents. “I invited a… guest. I have a few guards integrated with law enforcement in most major cities here. One of them has been involved with a dancer from the Star Cluster Club. The girl’s been worried about the new _management_ there. She came to my guard for help; the guard referred her to me. And presenting myself as a _Mandalorian_ is a touch more intimidating than a random civilian.” Her eyes narrow. “Now release me. I won’t ask again.”

Reluctantly, Saxon drops her hand, and she moves back a step, massaging her wrist and scowling at him. “You didn’t mention her yesterday,” he says, keeping his tone as cool and level as he can, despite the volatile combination of distrust and anger that’s building to a fever-pitch inside of him.

“You think I was really going to risk you two tracking her down and confronting her yourselves?” She gives a thin smile. “I remember how you conduct your _interrogations_ , Saxon. I wasn’t about to take that chance.”

“I’m not about to beat the shit out of a stripper,” Saxon scoffs. “Although _you_ look kitted out for battle right now. Expecting her to be lugging around some heavy artillery, are we?” He pauses for effect. “And wouldn’t it be _smarter_ if we toned down the Mando shit? You don’t know this woman, or how trustworthy she is. If word of this gets back out to other _interested parties,_ do we really want them knowing Mandalore is involved?”

Something unreadable fleets across Ursa’s face. “I trust my guard,” she says tautly. “And it’s too late for a change of plans now, at any rate.”

“Ursa,” Fenn interjects calmly. “Try not to keep us in the dark about these details going forward. This is a delicate matter, and can’t afford any miscommunications regarding the mission. We should be discussing all of our plans, not keeping secrets.” How… _diplomatic_ of him, Saxon thinks bitterly. If the point of this assignment was to keep cutting Ursa unending slack, they could’ve just brought Satine along for some _professional_ smooth-talking.

Ursa is nodding. “It seemed prudent at the time. But I apologize, Rau. I didn’t intend to cause any… misunderstandings.” There’s the telltale _ping_ of a communicator going off, and Ursa glances down at her belt where hers is emanating a blue glow. “That’s her.”

She presses her palm to the boarding ramp controls, and the ship opens, letting in a violent flurry of wind and snow. A figure in a long, hooded coat quickly scurries inside and the ramp retreat back up to close behind her. She’s Pantoran, and not especially pretty, although she’s got a nice body, from what Saxon can see of it under that thick coat. She spots Ursa, and her mouth puckers as if she’s taken a shot of something especially nasty. “You’re… Mandalorian,” she says. “Fuck. Alia didn’t tell me she was going to put me in touch with your lot.” She looks to Saxon and Fenn next. “And who are they supposed to be?”

“Corellians,” Ursa says crisply. The girl raises a skeptical eyebrow, but Ursa’s expression is stony and brooks no room for argument.

“Alright then,” she says slowly. “Sure. Whatever.”

With a gesture, Ursa directs her to another section of the ship – a plain white room with four plastic chairs set up around a plastic table. It would be almost eerily sterile were it not for the colorful scribblings around the edge of the doorway. They’re slightly smudged, as if Ursa had tried and failed to remove them, and it doesn’t take a genius to deduce that the artist was likely her daughter. Ursa leads them inside, and the door snaps shut behind them with a whistle of displaced air. It’s a creepy ambiance. Whatever Ursa wants to accuse him and _his_ interrogation methods of, this is disturbing in its own unique way. The stripper is probably shitting herself with anxiety now, he thinks, slightly amused.

Ursa takes a seat in one of the chairs, Fenn following suit. With a wave of her hand, Ursa directs her ‘guest’ to the seat on the other of side the table, adopting the trademarked Ursa Wren Imperious Sneer she’s been refining since she was a teenager. Saxon reclines against the wall- when he’s not running the show he always prefers to choose a position with the widest vantage point. You tend to miss things when you’re pressed up close to someone’s face – little ticks in body language, or shifts in posture that can be as telling as a revealed secret.

“Kay Rhayme, I presume?” Ursa asks.

The girl nods brusquely, her shoulders hunching. She pulls pack of cigarra’s from her pocket, and then digs around for a lighter. She pulls out a half-smoked one, and relights it.

“My name is Ursa Wren. Do you know me?”

“I’m going to have a _talk_ with Alia after this,” Kay mumbles. She raises the cigarra to her mouth. “Yeah. I know who you are.”

“And do you remember what you told her? About the ‘new management’?”

“Of course I fucking do,” she says. With a sigh, she gives up on her cigarra and stubs it out against the table, ignoring the death glare Ursa shoots her way. Kay’s lips have curled into a scowl, but her hands are shaking ever so slightly, and not from the two puffs of nicotine she got. She’s doing a semi-believable job of acting hard and jaded, but underneath, she’s afraid. Saxon catches Fenn’s eye, and then glances down pointedly to indicate the girl’s trembling hands. Fenn seems to understand his meaning, and he gives an almost imperceptibly subtle nod in return.

“You aren’t in trouble,” he assures her, cutting off whatever Ursa was about to say. His voice is a little too stiff and harshly accented to be called _soothing,_ but his eyes are open and his expression is genuine, and the woman stills under his gaze. He continues to speak to her, low and conversational, and slowly she begins to relax. Saxon watches the display, entranced. Fenn’s not a particularly charismatic man, but he’s always been good with people – for whatever reason, through whatever strange quirk in brain chemistry or upbringing, he _cares_ about people, even strangers. And they seem to be able to sense that in him, and trust him more for it. Saxon envies that talent somewhat. He’s never had a problem getting strangers to _like_ him, when he cares to put in the effort, but trust? The people who _trust_ him are confined almost exclusively to his family, Rook, and the men and women under his command. If he had Fenn’s skill for eliciting trust… the opportunities would be limitless. Distantly, in some remote corner of his mind, a thought flickers to life, unhelpfully suggesting that it might be precisely _that attitude_ that stops people from easily trusting him. He doesn’t like that the voice sounds a little like Satine, and a lot like Fenn. He tunes back into the conversation, focusing on their purpose.

Saxon isn’t sure what Fenn’s just asked, but whatever it was has resulted in Kay looking as guilty as a burglar caught with their hands in the lockbox. Her eyes shift around, avoiding Fenn, and her tongue flicks out to wet her lips.

“We aren’t law enforcement,” Fenn is saying. “We’re not here to arrest you. We just want to understand what’s going on.”

“You have to understand,” she says, raising her hands as if in surrender. “ _I_ wasn’t ever involved in it. You get that?”

“Sure,” Fenn tells her. “You weren’t involved. Now, can you tell me what it _was_ you weren’t involved in?”

She puts her hands down on the table, palms up. She stares at them. “Well,” she starts. “Management always… worked with some gangs here and there. Local kids, mostly. I guess there’s this massive area under our club, made of some kind of metal that obscures it from sensors. It's been there as long as anyone knows.”

Ursa is nodding. “Back when my ancestors laid siege to this world, most of the cities built structures like that,” she explains to Fenn. “They were used as bunkers to store armaments, and occasionally entire platoons.” She frowns. “We thought we’d discovered the majority of them by this point but frankly, seeking them out was never a priority. Krownest didn’t offer more than the token resistance after we’d conquered it.”

Ursa looks like she’s perfectly comfortable continuing to drone on about the subject indefinitely, but mercifully, Kay interrupts her. “Not interested in a history lesson. All I know is that they used to store drugs in there. _Occasionally_ black-market arms. You know. Harmless stuff like that.” She’s silent for a beat, and brings her hands up to run through her hair, upsetting the braid its being worn in. “But last few months have been different. New management bought out the old ones. And the gangs they’re running with now, they aren’t local.” She averts her gaze, falling quiet again.

“Go on,” Fenn encourages. “Tell us as much as you know.”

When she looks back up, her eyes shine as if she’s on the verge of crying. “I don’t know what I don’t know,” she says, her voice starting to break. She swallows. “They keep the dancers in the dark. They like our businesses kept separate. But… I know they aren’t running drugs through there. And once… I was there after my shift, with Alia, and we heard… well, I _thought_ we heard the sound of a struggle. A woman was crying. Then I heard them open the hatch to the underground, and drag her in.” She takes out another cigarra from her pack, and shakily lights it. “Alia asked me what is was, and I told her everything I’d seen the last few months. Then she said there was someone she was going to contact.”

“And that’s all you know?” Fenn prods. “If there’s anything else… anything at all, it’ll help us.”

Kay looks up, eyes still moist with unshed tears, and glares at both Saxon and Ursa. “I’ll talk to you,” she says to Fenn. “But they can wait outside.” She sets her jaw. “Otherwise I won’t say another word.”

Personally, Saxon doesn’t have any issues leaving. He’s starting to grow bored, and besides, Fenn seems like he’s handling things fine, but Ursa’s face has grown masklike in the way that Saxon’s seen plenty of times – usually before she punches someone squarely in the nose. Under the table, her hand clenches into a fist, and Saxon watches her closely, a buzz of anticipation humming through him at the possibility that Ursa might do something thrillingly fucked-up. But to his disappointment the last few years seem to have mellowed her out, for instead she stands abruptly, and with a curt nod to Fenn activates the door.

Saxon follows Ursa into the corridor, and when the door has shut behind them, he regards her with a smirk. “Bet you feel a little stupid wearing all that now, yeah? You thought you’d try to intimidate her with all your little Clan Wren toughness, but turns out she just needed a bit of sweet-talking.”

Ursa shrugs. “I made the best decision I could with the information I had. I don’t regret it.” She glances over her shoulder, glaring at the door as if convinced she’ll be able to see through it with the sheer force of her will alone. “I just wish I knew what they were saying.”

Tired of standing, Saxon lowers himself to the floor, and after a pause Ursa also sinks down into a sitting position against the wall. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he tells her. “Fenn’s honest like that.” He tries to make the remark as pointed as possible, but she brushes away the unsubtle implication.

“He is,” she agrees, and then neatly lobs the attempted insult back at him instead. “How is it _you_ of all people ended up with a man like that?”

Saxon has no intention of dissecting any aspects of his personal life to satiate Ursa Wren’s curiosity, least of all his relationship with Fenn. “It’s my magnetic sex appeal,” he says breezily. “He couldn’t stay away.”

“Fine,” she scoffs. “Don’t tell me.” She unclasps her helmet from its place on her utility belt and settles it in her lap. She swipes a gloved hand over the visor, scowling as she tries to scrub away an old, brownish bloodstain. She spits on her fingers and tries again.

Saxon examines her, some alien feeling worming through his innards. The moment is so close to being familiar, both of them waiting together before an upcoming mission, but _this_ is unpleasantly distorted from those warmer memories – Rook is gone, no laughter echoes through the air, and the once-reliable camaraderie they shared has curdled into something sour and ugly. Ursa finishes her makeshift polishing and looks up at him. She seems to guess at his thoughts, for she says, “Almost feels like old times, doesn’t it?” Her words are light enough, but her eyes narrow and she fixes him with a careful look. She’s afraid of him, maybe. Or maybe she’s just curious how he’ll respond. Saxon’s not sure – he’s starting to realize that he just doesn’t _know_ Ursa in the same way he used to.

But fuck it. He can play at being agreeable too, if that’s her game of choice. “Sure,” he responds at last. “We had some good times together, didn’t we?”

She smirks, and her gaze drifts off to some faraway memory. “Indeed. That village on Carlac…”

Saxon’s laugh is genuine. “Fuck, that was a _ride_ while it lasted. Wish we could’ve stayed there longer. Non-stop party.” He doesn’t actually _remember_ most of it, but he’s _pretty_ sure he hooked up with one of the local men and spent the rest of the time getting absolutely hammered with Rook and Ursa.

“You puked in your helmet one night, if you recall,” she says, smiling slightly. “It was disgusting.”

Saxon has no memory of that incident, but it seems plausible enough, and he has no reason to doubt her. “Sounds hilarious.”

“I miss those days,” she admits. “I don’t expect us to be friends again, but I do intend to maintain my alliance with Mandalore. I hope you can understand that.”

At those words a chill seems to go through him, purging any desire to reminisce. “You betrayed us,” he snaps, letting ice seep into his voice. The anger he’d been able to restrain to a low simmer has begun to boil over again, rushing through his body in a wave. His skin feels electrified, his muscles tense. It feels _good,_ even better than anger usually does. _This_ feels _righteous_. “Fuck you, you patronizing bitch. Do you really think I’d forget what you did?”

Her eyes sparkle with something bright and furious enough to match his own rage. Her hands clench around her helmet, and she leans forward. “I did what I thought was right,” she hisses. “I don’t regret my choice. And if your Sith hadn’t triumphed over Bo-Katan and the Jedi operative, _you’d_ be the ones remembered as traitors.”

Saxon stares at her uncomprehendingly. “But he didn’t lose, because he was the strongest,” he snarls. “Have your years on Krownest robbed you of _all_ your brain cells? That’s the _point_. He proved his strength in combat, all in accordance with the old ways that _you_ once pledged to defend.”

Her voice goes as hard as beskar-steel. “Let’s rewind a bit, shall we? We encountered a random Sith and his brother floating about in a junked-out freighter. We welcome them in as guests, and they proceed to undermine our sworn leader at every turn, and then finally it culminates in them assassinating him.” She lets out a breath through her teeth. “They were not Mandalorian. It was a _coup_.”

“You have such little faith in the strength of our culture?” he mocks. “Did you really think we would cease to be ourselves, just because we took in an outsider as leader? He had strength and he had vision. He was Mandalorian in spirit.”

Ursa releases her grip on her helmet to rub at her temples. She opens her mouth to respond, but whatever she’s about to say is silenced by the door that slides open by her side. Fenn and Kay exit the room on what appears to be the tail-end of a very _heartfelt_ moment: she’s sniffling and he’s patting her awkwardly.

“Thanks again,” he says. “Really. And I promise your involvement with us will be kept completely confidential.”

Kay nods, and wipes snot off her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. “I appreciate that,” she says, in a sandpaper rough voice. “And just… do what I told you about the shift change, and you shouldn’t have much trouble.” She looks over to Saxon, eyes narrowed in appraisal. “Bring that one, definitely. He looks like he’d fit in.”

Saxon looks across to Ursa, still cross-legged on the ground with her helmet cradled in her hands. “I think I’m offended.”

“That _is_ the intended purpose of an insult,” she says flatly, not meeting his gaze. In a smooth motion she stands, and with an expression that’s somehow even dourer than before, she puts a hand between Kay’s shoulder blades, firmly leading her off of the ship.

“Ursa,” Fenn calls out to her, before she can turn the corner and disappear into the main cargo hold. “Give me a little time with Saxon, once Kay is safely off the ship, if possible.”

Ursa regards Fenn silently, and Saxon’s waiting for her to shoot off some snide remark about how _she can come and go as she pleases on_ her _ship_ , but instead they look at each other for a long moment and she nods. Saxon can’t even begin to guess what that little display of silent telepathy was all about, but he’s already spent longer than he’d like puzzling over Ursa Wren’s behavior, and he’s not exactly keen to waste any more time doing so.

Saxon stands, ready for Fenn to tell him whatever it was that apparently couldn’t wait a few minutes. Instead, wordlessly, Fenn stretches out a hand and Saxon frowns at it, confused. It takes him a second to process Fenn’s intent, and when the realization finally hits he reaches out in return, interlacing their fingers together. Holding hands is not something they’ve typically done – Saxon, personally, wouldn’t be opposed, but Fenn has always been resistant to displays of public affection.

Saxon looks down at their hands and then back up to Fenn, bemused by his sudden change of heart. He doesn’t really have any working theories as to the cause, and Fenn’s expression isn’t providing any reliable clues. “What’s wrong?” he eventually asks. 

Fenn’s eyes are dark and clouded, and he blinks rapidly like he’s just been startled awake. “The girl,” he says slowly. “She’s seen some things in the past few months, around the edges of the club. From what she suspects…” He shakes his head, and his breath escapes him in a rush. “There’s _so many of them_ , Gar. Sometimes I forget what the galaxy can be like, beyond Concord Dawn. I guess I _let_ myself forget.” A muscle in his jaw works, and then in a low voice he starts to describe the things Kay had told him.

Fenn’s hand is warm and calloused around his own, and Saxon squeezes it in a way he hopes Fenn will find suitably reassuring. He’s not sure what to say, or how to empathize. It’s difficult for him to muster up any particular emotion on behalf of the men and women Fenn tells him about, but Fenn is upset by these stories, and he feels for _Fenn_ – so maybe that is enough. It is the most he is capable of.

“You ever think about how much evil is purely… administrative?” Fenn asks him.

Saxon shakes his head. He’s not one for tedious ruminations on the nature of good and evil in general, and he actively avoids thinking about bureaucracy of any sort.

Fenn’s thumb rubs small circles into the back of Saxon’s hand. “Large organizations like this. Most of the people involved have nothing to do with the capture of the people they enslave, or ever even physically touch them, let alone abuse them themselves. They just… facilitate it. Like all those Imperials sitting on their bloodless command decks, writing _reports_ that eventually cost thousands of lives, while never once firing an actual blaster.”

“Cowardly,” Saxon says. This, at least, he can agree with. He’s not an especially honorable man by Protector standards, but he’s never had much respect for the Imperial method of war-making, either. Partially because it just… sounds dull. But he’s always believed that a commander should get his own armor dirty and bloodied beside his troops and that the best way to kill a man is face-to-face… or if that’s not practical, with a clean shot from a sniper rifle.

With a sigh, Fenn releases his hand. “Thanks for listening,” he says. “I want you to know I appreciate it.” He runs his hand over the back of his neck, looking tired. “I’ll grab Ursa. Be back in a second.” 

* * *

Fenn returns a few moments later, Ursa Wren beside him. She’s carrying her helmet in the crook of her arm now, balanced against her hip, seemingly unable to commit to just re-hooking it to her belt or sticking it over her head. Personally, Saxon is in favor of the latter option – her perpetually grim expression is starting to grate on his nerves. “What did you find from the girl?” Ursa asks bluntly, evidentially just as impatient to move this along as Saxon.

“The leadership is off-planet,” Fenn tells them. “Although the syndicate underbosses come to inspect the facilities occasionally. Unfortunately, Kay wasn’t sure if there was any pattern to their visits. She’s picked up a bit – I guess some of them are, uh, patrons of her services. She was able to give me the code to enter the underground bunker – it’s just a simple number sequence, nothing sophisticated. She used to use it herself, back when it was just spice begin run through there, and she doesn’t think they’ve changed it since. She thinks there are guards stationed right inside, but they undergo a shift change every six hours, and apparently there’s normally a short lag between when the ones on duty leave and when their replacements enter.”

“We don’t even need to worry about all that,” Saxon says. “We know where your mystery slavers are hiding, Ursa. All you have to is send your forces in for a precise strike, and done – problem solved. They lose their stronghold on your planet, and the syndicate fucks off to terrorize some other backwater world. They’ll cut their losses if it comes to it; they’re businessmen, not fighters.”

“That sort of myopic decision-making could cost dearly,” Ursa snaps. “We don’t know _anything_ for sure. The club may or may _not_ be their only stronghold on the planet, and _even if_ it is, the most we’d be doing with a blind raid is interrupting their operations… briefly.”

“You interrupt their operations you interrupt their costs,” Saxon snarls back. “At the end of the day, all they’re looking at is their ledgers. What are you trying to accomplish here?”

 _“Decisive victory,_ ” she growls. “I want to ensure that they _never_ try to muscle into my world again. And to do that, I need to strike at their leadership – directly.” She turns to Fenn. “Did she have the name of the man or woman in charge? The one the underbosses report to?”

“She thinks she might have,” Fenn says. “Dryden Vos. I didn’t recognize it. Do either of you?”

Saxon frowns, trying to jog his memory. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that name is _familiar._ He knows this man, from some older, distant point in the past. Or maybe… awareness starts to dawn on him - _he_ didn’t know him, exactly, but _Maul_ did. The answer comes to him in a flash. “He was a crime boss Lord Maul had preliminary discussions with, back when our alliance with Black Sun was starting to fray.” His brow furrows as he tries to recall more. “I don’t believe those conversations went anywhere, not after Black Sun returned to the fold. He was leading some minor gang – Crimson Dusk, I want to say? Crimson Noon?” He gives up. “Something stupid and flowery like that. No clue what happened to them.”

“It seems he’s moved on from this… Crimson Noon,” Ursa guesses. “Or perhaps they’ve simply grown into something more formidable in the past few years.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Saxon says, considering. “It’s gotta be Crimson Dusk. Crimson Noon doesn’t make any sense – it’s usually sunset that’s all red-toned, not the middle of the day.”

“Crimson Dusk sounds right to me,” Fenn says.

Saxon flashes him a bright grin. “Appreciate the support.”

“Disagree,” Ursa says. “Crimson Dusk is too redundant. Crimson Noon makes more sense if they’re trying to imply their gang is a unique and fearsome entity – a midday sky that’s blood-red would be quite the sight to inspire shock and awe. Meanwhile, you can find a _red sunset_ on a million different planets scattered across the galaxy.”

“Crimson Dusk sounds better,” Saxon retorts. “Crimson Noon? That doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

“Maybe not in Basic,” Fenn says in a thoughtful tone, and Saxon snaps his head around to stare at him, aghast.

“Traitor! I thought you were on my side.”

Fenn unsuccessfully fights back a small smile. “Just reasoning it out. A lot of gangs use Huttesse as their primary language. Could be Crimson Noon flows more easily in that tongue.”

“Enough,” Ursa says, raising up her hand – apparently eager to pretend that she hadn’t also been bitching with them about the name just a few moments ago. “This Vos. He is our ultimate target.” 

“Fine,” Saxon says. “You say you want a shot at Vos? How the fuck do you expect to lure him here?”

Ursa chews at her lip, and for the first time looks unsure of herself. “We need more information, in any event,” she decides. “We’ll attempt a surgical infiltration of their facilities to get a clearer picture – nothing that will tie it back to Mandalore. You or Rau should be the ones to go – there’s a chance they might recognize my face if I’m captured, but they won’t be nearly as suspicious if some off-world assholes try to break in for a look around.”

“Convenient how that works out,” Saxon says dryly. “You get to put us in harm’s way while keeping your precious clan safely out of danger.”

“I’ll be there in the club as backup,” Ursa tells him, in a tone that is far too hostile to be reassuring. “The sensor-blockers shouldn’t interfere with just the communicators.”

Saxon finds he despises her in this moment – a sort of cold hatred that grows with each antagonistic word that leaves her mouth. He hates her for adding all these unnecessary complications to an objective that should remarkably straight-forward, hates her for letting this rot spread over her planet until Rook felt the need to send them to _fix_ her mess, and most deeply he hates for the audacity of her continued existence. She stands before him, a living reminder of Bo-Katan’s betrayal and everything that came after, wearing her ancestral Mandalorian armor as if she still has any claim to it. He has known her since they were both children, longer than he’s even known Rook, are too many of his memories are infected with her presence. Seeing her here, so similar to the woman who was once his friend, pollutes his mind, as if she’s retroactively spilling poison onto their shared past.

“This could backfire, you know,” Fenn is saying. “They could decide their operations are compromised and pull out – relocate to a new area of the planet. We’d have to start from scratch.”

“It is a possibility,” Ursa acknowledges. “But there is also a chance it might work out for the better – security incidents can also be a quick way of attracting the attention of _upper_ management. That could work out for us.” She glances between both of them. “Are we clear on the plan?”

Saxon and Fenn share a look. “Uh,” Fenn says. “Not really? I’m still not sure what information we’re supposed to be digging for.”

“Actually, I think I’ve figured it out, Fenn,” Saxon purrs. “The information would just be an added bonus. What Ursa here _really_ wants is to dangle us like bait for Crimson Dusk, hoping we’ll cause _just_ the right amount of damage that they’ll be compelled to figure out what the fuck is going on. Meanwhile, she’s assigning herself the challenging task of sitting on her ass in the club staring at tits while we try not to die.”

Ursa’s nose wrinkles and her upper lip curls back to expose teeth. “Close enough.”

“Perfect!” Saxon says cheerfully, staring at Ursa and entertaining the more-and-more tempting fantasy of beating her senseless with her own helmet. He smiles unpleasantly at her. “Just wanted to get us all on the same page.” He _could_ just do it, he thinks. Fenn would be upset, but it would loosen the Wren clan’s hold over Krownest, and more importantly, let him return to his original plan for how to handle the club. And Ursa, despite being one of the better shots Death Watch had to offer, was never exactly a first-rate hand-to-hand fighter. It wouldn’t even be hard, he thinks, his pulse starting to rise with promise of violence.

He feels a hand come to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and he can feel Fenn’s gaze bore into the back of his skull. _Another time, then_ he decides, exhaling the breath he’d been holding and forcing himself to relax. He shakes off Fenn’s hand, bitterness slithering into his body as his muscles loosen, replacing the hot, savage glow of anger.

“Shift change is every six hours?” Ursa asks. “I assume they’re on galactic standard?”

Fenn hesitates. “I think she would’ve said something if they weren’t.”

 _Finally_ , Ursa claps her helmet to its proper position on her belt, and rolls her shoulders. “That means we have two hours until the next one.”

“You want us to go _now_?” Fenn asks. “You are aware it’s still afternoon, correct?”

Ursa smirks. “This is a port city, remember? Half the people here are off-worlders, stepping out of cargo freighters or maintenance barges for the first time in months. They don’t know or care what time of day it is.”

Fenn doesn’t look enthusiastic, but he offers no further protest. And as far as Saxon cares, it’s been a shitty day so far – seeing some tits and ass bounce around should be a welcome change of pace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry sithmas!

They enter an orgy of flesh. Music thrums in the air, loud enough that he can feel the bass rumble in his chest like a second heartbeat. Tacky neon lights pulse against the dim, hazy darkness, pouring glowing color over half-naked bodies glistening with sweat. Women writhe on illuminated, elevated platforms around the club, spinning around poles or dancing with each other. It’s a filthy, sticky place – bottles and deathstick shells litter the floor, and passed out drunks’ slump in dirty corners or on cracked, fake-leather chairs. It smells like cheap perfume, sex, and stale sweat. 

All in all, it’s perfect. Everything he could’ve asked for and then some. He just wishes he hadn’t used up those spice-infused cigarras already. 

The only thing souring the mood is the stark absence of his blaster against his hip. The bouncers had been unfortunately thorough when searching them – even the small, serrated knife he keeps in his boot has been confiscated. He’d prepared himself for that possibility, but he still feels naked stripped of his weapons. His fingers twitch, his hand resting over the empty holster on his belt. He scans the room, quickly spying Ursa Wren – black-clad and wearing the same facial wraps from the day before – lounging on a frayed sofa as a heavily tattooed Twi’lek gyrates on the platform before her. Fenn and Saxon had left first, and hadn’t had to waste time changing outfits, so how she’d managed to _beat_ them here is a mystery best left to the gods.

Fenn’s hovering awkwardly beside him, and Saxon tugs on his hand, pulling them further in. There’s several intriguing displays competing for his attention, but he finally has them stop before a platform occupied by two women – a half-naked Rattataki and a Twi’lek wearing nothing but a thin dusting of gold glitter.

“You’re staring,” Fenn snaps.

“It’s a _strip club,_ ” Saxon retorts, raising his voice enough to be heard over the music. He doesn’t bother to look back in Fenn’s direction; it’s not exactly a mystery what he’d see there at any rate – he can practically _feel_ Fenn bristling beside him – and the Rattataki has begun to suck on the twitching ends of the Twi’lek’s lekku, eliciting moans that Saxon half-suspects are exaggerated but are wildly hot nonetheless.

“Besides,” he calls to Fenn, as the Twi’lek moves to pull off the other woman’s sparkly bra, revealing white, oiled breasts, “you gotta appreciate that they’re putting on a damn good show.” He glances briefly back at Fenn, just long enough to give a lascivious wink weaponized for maximum annoyance. As expected, Fenn’s scowl darkens at the sight of it. “Always fun seeing two women going at it,” he purrs, as obnoxiously as he can get away with without risking Fenn ditching his company for Ursa’s. Rook used to indulge him in that particular fantasy, and he still thinks to those adventures fondly. She was never as sexy as when she was nestled between another woman’s thighs.

He sees Fenn roll his eyes. “Is there anything you _don’t_ get off on?”

“Sure,” Saxon says easily, still looking raptly at the quickly escalating display in front of them. “Once I accidentally walked in on Pre Vizsla railing Bo from behind – it was horrifying. The _noises_ he was making…. I couldn’t even bring myself to _think_ about sex for a whole week.”

“Wow, a whole week,” Fenn mutters dryly, so low Saxon has to strain to pick it up. “I’m _so sorry_ that happened to you.”

Saxon flashes him a grin. “Glad you understand.” On the stage, the Twi’lek has positioned her thigh between the Rattataki’s legs, and the other woman is grinding on it like she’s trying to sand off the Twi’lek skin with nothing but her naked cunt. Absently, he palms his own stiffening cock, and turns back to Fenn. “We aren’t in any _particular_ rush, are we?”

Fenn’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “I suppose not. Why?”

“Got some credits to burn,” Saxon says casually. “I’ll buy you a lap dance.”

Fenn hesitates, and raises an eyebrow, considering the proposition. “Maybe next time.” He frowns. “This being possibly a front for a slave-running operation raises some ethical questions, though.”

Shame. There’s little Saxon thinks he would enjoy more in this moment than watching Fenn get all flustered by the ministrations of one of the dancers. The Twi’lek would be fun to watch tease him – or maybe the Zabrak girl nearer to the corner, the one with the braided hair and the orange eyes. There’s a human dancer performing some impressively athletic maneuvers on the platform to their left, too – blood-red tattoos ripple across her back as her muscles flex with motion. Fenn is staring at him oddly, and he realizes he’s gotten distracted again.

“Just you and me, then,” he purrs, stepping closer to Fenn until he can see the faint specks of green in the depths of his eyes. “I can think of worse ways to pass the time….” Fenn looks skeptical, but Saxon snakes his arms around him, kissing him until the other man’s resistance dissolves. When he withdraws, he’s delighted to see Fenn shudder and press his body closer into Saxon’s. It’s a sight that’s never lost its novelty: there’s almost nothing he finds as consistently appealing as coaxing Fenn into surrendering to him in this way. He slips a hand between Fenn’s legs, teasing over the man’s hardening cock. Fenn’s eyes drift closed, and he gasps audibly enough to prompt a spike of smug satisfaction in Saxon. He presses the thumb of his free hand to Fenn’s lips, letting the rest of his fingers splay over his jaw, and after a moment of hesitation Fenn’s mouth opens to sucks on it. Saxon’s own cock is already throbbing, and unable to wait any longer he pushes Fenn into one of the empty chairs on the periphery of the platform.

He slips his hand under the waistband of Fenn’s pants, grabbing as much of his cock as he can with the angle they’re in, and starts to rub it with quick, firm strokes. “Wait,” Fenn manages to grind out. “Aren’t we… a little exposed?”

Saxon kisses his neck, laughing. “Take a look around and tell me if you think anyone gives a shit.”

Fenn’s gaze fleets around the room, settling first on a massive Zabrak being blown next to the bar, and then to a female patron in a pilot’s jumpsuit, rubbing herself off as she indiscreetly eye-fucks one of the strippers. Even stoic Ursa Wren has the tattooed Twi’lek straddling her lap…although Ursa’s arms are folded across her chest, seemingly unimpressed by the up-close-and-personal show. Fenn’s eyes return to Saxon, the pupils blown so wide they almost swallow the blue entirely. “Fair point,” he pants.

Saxon kisses him hungrily, continuing to stroke his cock until Fenn is a gasping, trembling mess.

“Do you… want a hand?” Fenn asks, his gaze dropping to Saxon’s crotch, where his erection visibly strains against the fabric of his pants. 

“You’ll make it up to me later,” Saxon rumbles, and at this Fenn’s body jerks and he cums on his shirt, a low, almost pained noise escaping him as he does.

There’s a _very_ brief moment before Fenn realizes his shirt is ruined, where he lolls back bonelessly into the chair as the immediate aftereffects of his orgasm wash over him. But realization hits quickly, and Fenn spasms as if he’s just had a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he says. He glares accusingly at Saxon. “You couldn’t have _tried_ to direct it somewhere else? Literally _anywhere else?_ ” 

“I think it suits you,” Saxon smirks.

Fenn makes a futile attempt to wipe it off with his hands, but only succeeds in smearing it around. “This is terrible,” he moans. “You always pick the worst times to be an asshole. We have only-” he looks down at his chronometer and his eyes bulge. “Five minutes until the shift change! What the fuck? Where did the time go?”

“Relax,” Saxon says, stretching languidly. “The bunker’s a dozen steps away at most.”

Fenn looks downright murderous, an expression Saxon finds more endearing than remotely frightening. “Come on,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “Let’s just get this over with so I can take a shower.”

* * *

Saxon follows Fenn as he stalks to the back of the club to an entryway labeled “employees only”. They push their way inside past glittering curtains, moving down a narrow hallway lined with doors. The music is more distant here, and he can faintly hear giggling and breathy noises emanating from within the rooms. Saxon glances at his partner. Fenn’s pace is too fast – he’s speed walking down the hallway and looking guilty as fuck in the process. Saxon silently tugs on the back of his shirt, directing him to follow his lead and adopt a more ambling pace. They’re still squarely in the Plausible Deniability section of their break-in – right now, they could easily pass themselves off as a couple of drunk dipshits hoping to sneak a closer look at the girls. Soon they won’t have that excuse.

They round a corner, coming to small room that’s entirely empty save for a garishly colored accent rug dropped dead-center on the floor. Fenn kicks it to the side, exposing a round durosteel hatch a few feet wide. There’s a small panel at the center, and Fenn kneels, quickly inputting the sequence Kay had taught him. There is a short pause followed by the telltale sound of a lock disengaging, and the hatch pops up. Fenn reaches tentatively into the darkness within, and seems to connect with something solid. “There’s a ladder,” he whispers. “Follow me.”

They descend downwards, surrounded on all sides by smooth steel. It’s a clever design, in some ways – the cramped space ensures a large-scale enemy assault would be bottlenecked, but it would also be too limiting to move large arms or bulk items through. There’s got to be another exit, Saxon decides as they continue to climb further down. Otherwise, there’s no way this would be remotely practical for a large syndicate trying to inconspicuously transport slaves.

Finally, the ladder ends and from below wan light spills up into the shaft. Fenn drops onto the ground into a low, wary crouch. For a second he seems to relax, and then he tenses abruptly and twists his body to side. He’s a millisecond too slow to completely dodge the fist that spins out towards him, and it deals him a glancing blow that he does his best to roll with. Fenn jumps back, shifting into a defensive posture, and the guard reaches down to pull a blaster from his holster. Saxon decides it’s past time he moves to assist. As quickly as he can, he repositions himself and then releases his grip on the ladder, dropping down the rest of the shaft and onto the guard.

He’d been intending to fall directly onto the man’s back, colliding at the right angle to drive him into the ground – spine downwards and chin going up. It would’ve been a clean kill – broken neck, minimal blood. He misses, slightly. His foot manages to crack against the guard’s hand as he falls, knocking the blaster away, but he ends up landing on the floor instead of the man’s back. The guard looks faintly dazed, and before he can recover enough of his wits to lunge for the blaster spinning on the floor, or worse, call for help – Saxon smashes him in the face, palm outwards. Blood gushes from his nose, warm and wet on Saxon’s hand, and as the man stumbles back, raising his hands to clutch his face with a low, pained gurgle. Soundlessly, Fenn is behind him, his arms locked around the man’s head and neck. The guard’s eyes bulge, and one of his legs kicks out in vain as Fenn continues to press into his throat. Saxon recovers the blaster from the ground, turning it over in his hand and watching as the guard continues to struggle. He gestures to him with it, “Should’ve gone for this first, genius – maybe you’d have had a chance if you did.”

The man’s eyes roll back into his head, and he dies with his own blood coating his nose and mouth. Saxon hopes he was cognizant enough in those final moments to register what he was saying – it amuses him to think those were the last words the guard heard.

Carefully, Fenn releases pressure on the guard’s neck, and lowers the corpse to the ground. “Well, this isn’t good,” he mutters.

For the first time since he’s dropped into the facility, Saxon takes stock of his surroundings, and his jaw drops in faint amazement. The word _bunker_ doesn’t begin to describe it. What this place is, really, is a _labyrinth_. The main room where they find themselves is huge enough to pass as a lobby, and thin, maze-like hallways burrow outwards, winding deeper into the underground. The whole thing looks like a massive tunnel system someone decided to coat in a layer of frequency-blocking durosteel… which, Saxon guesses, is probably not far from the truth, if what Ursa said about this being a hideout for moving troops and supplies during the siege was accurate. Fluorescents hang from the ceiling at seemingly random intervals, casting harsh light and wide shadows across the space. There’s nobody else currently around, from what he can see, but he suspects that could change quickly.

“We should go,” Saxon grunts. “If we head further in, eventually someone will find the body and know we’re here. Time to cut our losses.”

Fenn wets his lips, staring at the body. “We might not get another chance at this,” he says. A look of resolve flashes through his eyes. “I’ll drag the body over there,” he decides, tilting his head in the direction of a thin, darkened tunnel weaving off to their right. “You… look around a little longer. Let’s at least try to get a better sense of what we’re dealing with, before we return back up.”

Saxon glances back up into the shaft, then back to Fenn. “Fine,” he grumbles. “You owe me for this.” With a resigned sigh, he thrusts the blaster into Fenn’s hands. “Take this with you. You’re the one lugging around a corpse, you look more suspicious than I do right now.”

Fenn nods, holstering the blaster to his side, and leans forward to press a quick kiss to Saxon’s lips. Then, with a grunt, he hooks his arms under the body, kneeling and swinging it over his shoulder. There are no further goodbyes, and Saxon is glad for that – it would make it feel too final.

Saxon watches Fenn enter the tunnel and vanish into the shadows within. Unhappily, he chooses one of the more illuminated tunnels for himself and starts into it at a deliberately casual pace. The place is impressively – and surprisingly - modern as he goes further in. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting – maybe dirt floors packed with shipping containers big enough to transport humanoids, or perhaps a series of force fields installed as a sort of jury-rigged detention area. Instead, there are rows of sleek doors, each with their own access panel. As far as he’s concerned, this alone is constitutes ironclad proof that an off-world syndicate is involved here. These are new additions – they don’t quite _match_ the rugged steel-and-tunnel aesthetic of the underground system, and they don’t look like something local gangs would be able to afford either. There’s _money_ being pumped into this place, and a lot of it. One of the doors is stamped with the insignia of Czerka Corp – a security company known for loose morals, but not for affordable pricing.

He rounds a sharp corner, and encounters his second guard of the day. This one stands in front of a translucent door, humming a melody that has a suspicious resemblance to an old Mandalorian love song Rook used to be fond of. He spares a quick glance at Saxon as he approaches, his expression revealing only a vague curiousity. “They didn’t give you an escort, huh?” he snorts. “Figures. Probably wanted to get back to their drinking, am I right?”

Nice to know that despite the expensive furnishings, this facility isn’t exactly home to the most well-oiled organization. If he had to guess he’d say this guard is a local boy, a Krownest citizen recruited into the syndicate, as opposed to a more disciplined cartel soldier shipped in to keep things running smoothly. Saxon assimilates that information, deciding that in this circumstance, _bluffing_ probably edges out _wanton murder_ as the most viable option to dealing with him. Saxon halts for a second, quickly rubbing his knuckles on the side of his pants to remove any lingering bloodstains. Before the guard can grow suspicious, he moves forward again, keeping his pace at a loose and confidently relaxed stroll. He comes to a stop in front of the door, and peers inside. There’s a shadowed figure moving in the space within, although it’s difficult to make out any specifics beyond “roughly humanoid”.

“Did you hear me?” the guard asks, beginning to sound irritable.

Saxon doesn’t bother turning to face him. “I’m not a patron,” he sneers, making a quick gamble on what _exactly_ is the nature of the person inside the room. “Have you been stationed here too long to remember the faces of your superiors?” He goes silent, giving time for the weight of the implication to fully sink in.

“You’re… _oh,_ ” the guard stammers. “They… they mentioned something about an underboss coming down soon, but….” He breaks off, and clears his throat. “Apologies, sir. You’ll… I assume you’re here to inspect the merchandise?”

Saxon gives him a chilly smile. “Don’t keep me waiting, boy.”

With an audible gulp, the guard quickly enters a passcode into the panel next to the door, and it slides open, revealing a small room cast in dim, orange light. There is a thin cot pushed into a corner, and sitting on it is a violet-skinned Twi’lek woman wearing a white dress. She’s quite attractive, he notes, despite the look of pure horror that’s begun to settle onto her features.

The guard gives her a look of lazy contempt. “The gift for MaDall, as ordered. They said she likes Twi’lek women – we thought this one would do nicely. She came in on the last transport, but we kept her here instead of shipping her back out to the Savareen mines with the others.” He hesitates. “Is she... sufficient? We have time to find another, if this one isn’t suitable.”

Saxon looks to him. “Give me your blaster,” he says, injecting as much cold command into his voice as possible.

There’s enough fear of the syndicate beaten into the guard that he obeys the order on instinct, before he has time to fully process it. The gun dangles loosely in his grip, offered clumsily to Saxon. “What for?”

Saxon snatches it away from him before he has time to think twice about the request. “No reason.” Without another word, he raises the blaster to the guard’s forehead, and shoots him between the eyes. He collapses against the wall and his body slowly slides down onto the floor, what’s left of his face frozen in an expression of helpless confusion. Saxon lowers the weapon, and turns back to regard the Twi’lek.

There’s damage on her he hadn’t noticed before – some half-healed bruises around her wrists, and most prominently a ring of shiny scar tissue that encircles her throat like a necklace. He can guess at its origin: a shock collar, activated far too liberally by a particularly punitive master. She’s staring at him now, and her eyes have begun to shine with something perversely akin to hope. Her lips part as if about to form the first words of a prayer. She seems so pathetic in this moment, so childlike. Whatever sensuality of feminine appeal she had possessed earlier has become a distant memory. Saxon looks upon this woman, and there is nothing lovely or alluring to behold: just a beaten slave, almost embarrassingly desperate for any offered salvation.

Unwillingly, some thick and sludgy emotion has begun to coagulate in his chest as she continues to gaze at him with those stupid, innocent eyes. He wonders at the source of it, and blames Fenn’s influence. This is his doing, surely: _Fenn_ would want to help her, his strict moral code would allow for nothing else. This secondhand regret must be obligation to Fenn – a desire to see his wishes realized. He does not try to question it further. He does not want to know why this emotion inside of him feels nothing like duty to a lover – unless _duty_ is supposed to feel like pity, all sandpaper-rough against the inside of his chest. The slave’s eyes glimmer wetly again with that sickly, tearful sheen of hope, and he finds he has to avert his gaze.

He hears her whisper a plea, and he is unsurprised by it. A part of him had been wondering how long it would take her to start begging – to her credit, she’d held out longer than he’d anticipated. “Help me,” she whimpers. “More of them will be back. _Please_.”

He looks back to her. The nascent hope in her eyes has evaporated, replaced by an emotion that looks like it comes more naturally to her: dread.

“I’ll… do whatever you want,” she offers quietly. She attempts a seductive smile, but it looks grotesque paired with those wet, miserable eyes, and he recoils back.

“I’m not on a rescue mission, girl,” he says stiffly, killing what remains of her hope as quickly and mercifully as he can. Something seems to shatter in her eyes, and her features settle into a blank expression. That stirring of almost-compassion stings against his ribcage, and awkwardly, gruffly, he adds, “we’ll be back for you.”

She doesn’t seem pleased by this. “By the time you return… _if_ you return… I could be off-world by then.” Her lips peel back, revealing sharp, predator canines. “No,” she hisses. “I come with you now, or I raise the alarms and every single guard in this complex knows where you are.”

Saxon stares at her, and weighs his options. Well. _Option_. He prides himself on being a logical man, and there’s jackshit that’s _logical_ about letting an abused Twi’lek slave trail after him like a lost akk pup on some doomed bid for freedom. At best he’d be able to use her body as a shield, but she’s so skinny he half-suspects any plasma that hit her would just cut her in two and hit him as well anyway. Her eyes dart to a small button on the wall that he assumes is the alarm, but there’s more distance between her and that wall than there is between her and _him_. They’re locked in a silent stalemate now, and he assesses her again as she gazes back. He could shoot her, but he doesn’t care for the risk of introducing the blaster into such a close-quarters environment, and if he misses or she manages to dodge, he’s fucked.

Her thighs are bunched, and she looks ready to dart over to that wall at any sign of movement from him, but she’s glancing to his hands, expecting any assault to come in the form of fists or in the use of the blaster. A sweep to the legs then, he decides. It’ll knock her off balance, and from there it shouldn’t take much to grab her and pin her – she’d be dead in under a minute. He looks at her and calculates the odds of his success – and determines them to be acceptably high. He sees her death in his mind, and knows it to be a certainty. All he has to do is _act_ and seal her fate.

Instead, he takes a half-step back, and makes the _stupidest_ possible choice available to him. “Alright,” he spits out, not bothering to conceal his frustration. “But if you’re injured, if you fall behind….” He drifts off, intending to her ruminate on the implied threat. To his dismay, the little extortioner only looks delighted.

“Thank you,” she breathes.

“Make yourself useful,” he says. “Pop your head out into the hallway. Tell me what you see.” 

Tentatively, she obeys, quickly putting her head out and twisting it around in both directions. She pulls herself back inside, her lekku twitching with anxiety. “There’s someone coming,” she whispers. She eyes Saxon, looking contemplative. “Can you… do the thing you did before with the other one? Make him surrender then-” she mimes pulling a trigger, “- _bang._ ”

“Not with you at my heels I can’t,” Saxon snaps. “You know, you’re really fucking this up for me, right?” He inhales deeply. “What direction was he coming from?”

She cocks her head to the left. “That one.” She squints. “His blaster was out too. Not sure if that matters.”

“That means they know we’re here,” Saxon tells her coolly. “Duck down, and stay put. Don’t move until you see my signal.” He raises his blaster, and exhales, listening for the telltale sound of bootsteps. He hears the footfall of someone approaching on the left, as the Twi’lek had indicated. The sound stops briefly, and then picks up again, slower. They’re suspicious, he thinks. They know someone’s here.

As quick as he can, he’s out the door and in the corridor, shooting twice in quick succession at the first figure he sees. The muzzle of his blaster flashes with plasma, and the guard crumples, smoke drifting from their abdomen. He looks back into the room, gesturing for the Twi’lek to follow him. The shot was loud, and although the structure of the tunnels would seemingly indicate some insulation against sound, he knows enough people will have heard the weapon discharge. The slave emerges, and then gasps, pointing to a second approaching figure armed with two small blasters. “There!”

He raises his weapon, about to fire, and but the figure stalks closer, her gait sinuous and _familiar._

“Oh shit,” Saxon grunts. “It’s you.” He keeps the blaster trained on Ursa Wren for another moment, and then with a huff lowers it to his side.

The Twi’lek shrinks behind him. “A friend?” she murmurs.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He scowls at Ursa. “What’re you doing here, sneaking up on me? And how did you manage to get not one but _two_ blasters past those bouncers?”

She looks over her shoulder, and satisfied that they’re alone, turns back to Saxon. Her eyes track the girl by his side and she blinks, but mercifully doesn’t mention it. “As for the latter question, I assure you, you _don’t_ want to know,” she promises dryly. She pauses, and from what Saxon can see of her face under the wrappings, she doesn’t look pleased. “And for the former… Rau managed to get a message out to me. Said you needed assistance.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s fine,” she says shortly. “I contacted him with my location when I came down. He should be here soon. But we have a problem.”

“Let me guess,” Saxon says. “The entrance is lousy with guards.”

“Masterful deduction, as usual,” Ursa bites out. “It’ll be a little easier now that we all have weapons, but I’m not liking our odds.

Saxon’s mind works, and he turns to the girl, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Listen to me very carefully,” he orders. Her eyes go wide at the sudden contact, and he loosens his grip. “When they brought you in, do you remember _how_?”

“I – sort of. Yes. It was me and a group of others. We came through some tunnel.”

“Now _think_ ,” he tells her. “Can you try to remember where that was?”

Ursa taps on his shoulder, and with a weary irritation he raises his head to meet her gaze. “What now?”

“I’m going to see if I can find Rau,” she tells him, and he hates that he can practically _hear_ the smirk in her voice. “Meet up with you soon. No need to thank me.”

* * *

Fenn trudges half-blind through another shadowed corridor, identical in all respects to the last dozen he navigated through. He’s off-balance in the dark – somewhere along the line he’d begun to take his armor for granted, and stripped of the infrared and visual assistance tech he’d grown reliant on, he’s floundering. His only consolation is that the other guards he’s encountered have all appeared to be equally unused to this kind of combat environment – and not a single one so far has been in possession of any sort of night vision equipment. He pauses as the tunnel splits into two – glancing down to check on the tracking ping Wren sent him. A golden dot blinks somewhere northwest of his location, and after a quick debate Fenn decides on taking the leftward branch of the tunnel.

This section is brighter than the one before, and he squints as his eyes work to adjust to the sudden influx of light. His grip on the blaster tightens and his heart pounds in his chest, the sound of blood rushing into his ears. He exhales with slow deliberation, trying to force his body into something resembling calm. He’s not used to being in such enclosed spaces – he’s a fighter pilot, and the longer he spends in this cramped, underground network of tunnels the more claustrophobic he gets.

 _Its fine_ he tries to convince himself as he rounds the corner. _It’ll be fine_.

It’s actually, in some morbid way, pretty hilarious that he’s still mentally chanting this mantra to himself at the exact moment he realizes he’s utterly fucked. There’s a group of guards blocking the path in front of him – two women and two men, each with a blaster pointed squarely in his direction.

Before he can even think to _duck,_ there is a blinding ripple of plasma, followed by several more in rapid succession – a staccato of flashing blaster-fire, close enough that his eyes water from the brightness. The men and women before him collapse to the ground, and Ursa Wren materializes into view, wreathed in smoke and haloed in the imprint of scarlet light burned into his corneas. She pulls her wrappings down to her chin, looking at once magnificent and supremely pissed off, like the surliest avatar of War: Kad Har’angir with a chronic case of resting bitch face.

“Rau,” War greets stiffly, silhouetted in pops of warbling color that explode like fireworks around her shoulders.

Fenn blinks rapidly and rubs at his eyes until the squiggly afterimages fade. His mouth opens instinctively to complain about his newly fucked-up vision, before thinks better of it and snaps it back closed. If it were Saxon rescuing him, he’d have zero qualms about immediately giving him shit for the possible eye damage, but this is Ursa Wren, a nominal ally ay best and certainly not a _friendly_ one. “Thanks for the assist,” he says instead.

She holsters one of her two blasters, and slips her finger away from the trigger of the other, letting it rest parallel to the barrel. They’re sleek, clearly well-kept weapons that Ursa appears to be intimately familiar with – they’re _hers_ , not blasters stolen from guards along the way, which raises a particularly horrifying set of questions about the mechanics of _how_ exactly she managed to smuggle them into the club. He’s happier not contemplating such things, he decides at last.

“You and Saxon have made a real mess of things,” she admonishes, her tone mild but her eyes as dark as flint.

Fenn debates the merits of arguing that particular point. “The _mess_ was unavoidable,” he says at last. “Let’s be honest, Ursa – this plan of yours kind of sucked.”

She has the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “Maybe so,” she says, in as grudging an apology as Fenn as ever heard. She chews on the inside of her cheek, her eyes narrowing. “Truthfully, this is the first time I’ve really been the tactical point-woman for this kind of operation,” she admits. “Vizsla and Bo-Katan were always hands-on with most of their strategy.”

Fenn is certainly not unsympathetic. He remembers the terror of having to take over as Chief Protector long before he was ready – thrust into the position by Eland’s premature demise. The constant, nagging fear of screwing up badly enough to get his men and women killed has haunted every decision he’s had to make – and although this has faded into an ever-present background noise as he’s gotten more comfortable with the role, he doubt it will ever disappear completely. For the first time, he feels a kind of kinship to Ursa Wren. “Shit happens,” he tells her, not unkindly. She nods at this, pulling her wrappings back into place. “Did you find Saxon?”

“Yes,” she says shortly. “Follow me.”

* * *

Ursa is quick, and it’s not long before she’s guided the both of them back to Saxon. It’s a particularly strange sight that greets him: Saxon is hunched over with a Twi’lek woman, trading hushed conversation as she uses her finger to diagram something into the air. To say Fenn has question would be understating it, and he trades a look with Ursa, who looks moderately less confused, but easily twice as irritated.

“Ready?” she snaps.

Saxon straightens, his lip twisting. “Whenever you are. You and I at the front?”

“Acceptable.” Ursa turns to Fenn. “You’ll take the rear.”

The Twi’lek’s gaze flashes between Ursa and Saxon. “And me?”

“Hang out in the middle and let me know if we’re going the wrong way,” Saxon orders. He seems to consider something, and he offers a wide smile that may be the least reassuring expression Fenn has ever seen. “And if blaster bolts start flying around, maybe fling yourself valiantly in front of Fenn?”

Saxon points in his direction, and the Twi’lek glances at Fenn, making eye contact and raising an eyebrow in an expression that succinctly communicates she has no intention of jumping in front of a pillow chucked his way, let alone blaster fire. Personally, Fenn is glad for it. It makes his job a little easier if he doesn’t have to worry about the added complication of spontaneous heroics from an unknown quantity. 

Once they’re situated, Ursa and Saxon start them at a brisk pace down the tunnels, having evidently decided to prioritize speed over the need for caution. Fenn marvels at them as they move together, shoulder-to-shoulder, almost in complete lockstep with each other. For all their earlier bickering, they’re utterly synchronized now, communicating with nothing more than a quick gesture or a tilt of the head. 

And in battle…

They’re lucky enough to avoid any altercations for the first stretch of their journey. But just as the Twi’lek is directing them to exit tunnel, they encounter a pack of guards, armed to the teeth and bristling with nervous energy.

Fenn watches them as they burst into motion. Whatever old grudges and animosities linger between them melt away in the face of a shared adversary. Saxon and Wren work together with a rusty familiarity; her, as deadly and sinuous as a vine tiger, him, all brute force and violent, explosive strength. He’d like to say he contributes – and he does get off a few good shots – but the fight is over almost before it started. Ursa lowers her blasters slowly, her chest heaving with exertion, as Saxon approaches the heavy door at the end of the tunnel. He glances back towards the Twi’lek. “Any tricks to this I should know about?”

She shrugs.

Ursa moves beside him, holstering her blasters to grab the heavy wheel at the center of the door, and with a grunt yanks down on it. There is a shrill, metallic screech, and then laboriously the wheel begins to turn.

Saxon, now covering Ursa’s six, risks an irritated glance at her progress. “Speed that up, will you?”

“ _Shut up_ ,” she manages, sweat dripping off her brow onto her now-dirtied wrappings. “ _Fuck_.” Fenn can almost hear her teeth grind together as she pulls down against the wheel, and finally, fresh air starts to creep inside as the seal is released. She throws her shoulder against the door, and it opens into a sea of gray and metal. She slips out, followed closely by Saxon, and then by the Twi’lek and finally Fenn. 

Outside, wan, diffused sunlight greets them, along with the bite of chilled air. Fenn doesn’t have a single clue _where_ it is they’ve found themselves- from the looks of it, it’s some kind of deserted shipyard; rusty skeletons of ancient starships are scattered around, picked clean of their hull-plating and armaments by scavengers. He sucks in a deep breath, letting his eyes drift closed, grateful beyond measure to finally be under an open sky. When he opens his eyes, he finds Ursa is staring at him oddly. “What’s on your shirt, Rau?”

Behind her, Saxon’s eyes glitter with mirth, and he bites on the inside of his cheek, holding back a laugh. “ _Nothing_ ,” Fenn snaps. He sighs heavily, and spares a quick glance behind them. “At least we got what we wanted,” he says. “There’s no way we won’t have their _attention_ after this.” 


End file.
